Retrieval
by Sharedsun
Summary: After a devastating mission, Alex finally walked away from MI6 for good. Now, three years later, they desperately need him again. Who better to send to persuade Alex to come back than an old familiar face? That is, if they can manage it. Wolf/Alex slash
1. Prologue

A/N: Hi there. Thanks for taking the time to check this out. Please, make yourselves comfortable. It'll be a bumpy ride.

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Prologue

"Mr. Blunt, this just came in for you. The Prime Minister sent it, priority mail. I thought I should bring it directly in to you."

Alan Blunt glanced up from the papers on his desk and eyed his secretary skeptically. She brushed a nonexistent bit of lint from her shirt and smoothed her skirt nervously. How long had she been working for him again? Three weeks yet? He needed to get one with more backbone.

"Sir?" she ventured timidly.

"Give it to me." He said briskly, finally taking pity on the girl. She walked over to hand him the file, and then hurried out of the room as fast as her five inch heels would let her. He shook his head, watching her go. He would need to get someone more competent to interview potential employees—lately they'd all been imbeciles.

Sighing, he flipped open the folder and briefly scanned its contents. His eyebrows drew together and a worried frown made its way onto his face the further in he got. That was the way Tulip Jones found him only half an hour later, staring at the file as if it contained his own death sentence.

"What is it?" she asked him, taking a seat facing his desk. He didn't answer her right away, which made her a bit apprehensive.

"We need to call in Alex Rider." He informed her, closing the file and placing it in front of him, face down.

Ms. Jones frowned, "Alex quit three years ago. We haven't been able to get through to him since his girlfriend died during his last assignment, and his housekeeper left with her new fiancée."

"The girl was his own fault."

"Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't," Ms. Jones snapped, biting down hard on the peppermint in her mouth; hard enough to crack it into pieces, "That doesn't change the fact that he won't do it."

"Ms. Jones," Alan Blunt said, leaning forward slightly to emphasize his point, "We need Alex. I don't care how we get him. But we need him."

"Why him? He's nearly eighteen. Almost an adult—he couldn't hide behind the façade of an innocent child any longer."

Alan Blunt sighed, "Read this," he told her, handing over the file. She glanced at him suspiciously, then opened it up and began to read. Her face paled. She rose to her feet.

"I'll start calling in the connections. He'll be here by tomorrow evening at the latest."

"Good."

* * *

Obviously the following chapters won't be as short--this was just the prologue. If I get a decent response, I'll probably update faster. That was a hint ;)

Information (things you might like to know...

-Alex is almost eighteen in this story, we should see a birthday coming up soon.

-I have decided that Wolf is twenty eight, hopefully that doesn't rub too many people the wrong way

-Yes, there will be slash, romance, angst, swearing...am I forgetting anything?

-Oh yeah, the reason Alex was finally able to go through with his threat to quit MI6 will be explained

Love you all, please review, yadda yadda you know the drill


	2. Request

A/N: The response to my mini-prologue was astonishing, and extremely flattering. If I get just as many reviews for this chapter I will be one happy author. And happy authors tend to write more. This chapter is one of those things that is necessary for the plot, but not as exciting. When Wolf meets Alex, thats when the sparks begin to fly. Oh, and please excuse the embarassing shortness of this chapter.

On another note, I could really use a beta reader. If anyone is interested, please contact me. I'm pretty desperate.

Disclaimer: Do not own Alex Rider. Probably never will.

I'll stop wasting your time now. Read and Review.

* * *

The boy stood fifty yards from the target. He was so intent on it that his assessor, the man known as Wolf, was certain he could strip down right there and run around in circles, butt naked, and the boy wouldn't take any notice. That kind of concentration could hurt more than it helped. Still staring, the boy slowly raised his gun and fired a single shot.

Wolf walked over to asses—not that he really needed to. The man's reputation as a sharpshooter had preceded him. Still, it couldn't hurt to be sure.

"Yep. Dead on. Again." A voice piped up from behind him. Wolf didn't even need to turn. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his former teammates. Key word there being "former".

"Fox," he grunted, finally turning. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The response was a raised eyebrow, "You haven't changed a bit."

Wolf shrugged. "Why would I?"

The other eyebrow joined the first. "I think the boy over there is waiting for your verdict. He looks smug. Knock him down a peg or two, then come meet me by the drill yard. We have a lot to talk about."

With that, Fox was gone. Wolf watched him go, then turned back to his charge, who was indeed watching with a smug smile. Wolf scowled and stomped over, enjoying the way that smugness was quickly replaced with confusion, and then apprehension.

"Listen up, boy…"

* * *

Fox was waiting by the track when Wolf arrived, and fiddling with a piece of official looking paper. One glance at the expression on his old comrade's face and Wolf was tempted to turn and start walking in the other direction. Quickly.

He didn't. He approached cautiously, however, and stopped a few feet away. Fox noticed. Smiled grimly. "You showed. Good."

Wolf shrugged.

Fox took a deep breath and began to speak, "Look. I'm not going to bullshit around with you; you deserve better. I've gotten a request from MI6." A pause, and then, "For your services." Another pause, "Concerning Alex Rider—y'know, Cub."

Wordlessly, Wolf reached out. Fox handed over the paper and shoved his hands into his pockets, watching as Wolf skimmed the paper over, his expression darkening. Fox tensed, readying himself for the oncoming storm.

"Bloody hell! You're fucking kidding, right? This is a freaking joke. And they couldn't even be bothered to come themselves; they send a--sorry." He bit off the rest of his rant, in response to Fox's wince.

"It's not that bad, really. Think about it. Just this one favor and they'll owe you. Believe me; you'll be repaid in full." Fox leaned forward slightly, handing Wolf another, smaller slip of paper, "Consider it. Don't answer right away."

Then, just like that, he turned and walked away, hands in the pockets of his jeans. Wolf didn't stay to watch him go. Instead, he shoved both papers into his own pockets without looking at them and headed straight for the weight room.

* * *

It was mostly empty—at midday, practically everyone had somewhere better to be. That was the reason he chose this particular hour to train; he didn't appreciate people gawking. Today, however, he would not tolerate even the few loners that were inevitably present. The expression on Wolf's face soon sent the over-dedicated stragglers running for cover. Well, all but one.

"Bad day, Wolfie?"

Eagle. Wolf growled, giving him glare so powerful it would have made a lesser man piss his pants. Unfortunately, Eagle was not a lesser man, so he just grinned back.

Finally, when it became clear that the glare was not getting the proper reaction, Wolf dropped it and rearranged his face into a more comfortable scowl. "Shut up." But he didn't order the other man out.

Eagle just winked cheerily and sauntered over toward the racks where the weights were stacked precariously, in tall piles leaning against the wall for support. He took a moment to look over the options, and settled for four fifty pound metal "doughnuts" which he slid onto a bar resting over a bench.

Wolf didn't wait to be beckoned. He slid right onto the bench underneath the bar, and grasped it firmly, shifting his hands around until they felt right. Then he began to lift. Eagle lounged against the wall to his right, arms folded.

"Want to talk about it?"

Wolf grunted in response.

"I'll take that as a no. Although, maybe you're just too out of breath to come up with an answer. Getting soft? Losing shape?" Eagle was smirking now.

Wolf shot him another glare, with no better results than the last time. That was a direct challenge. He turned his attention back to the weight. "Saw Fox today."

Whatever Eagle had been expecting, it clearly wasn't that. He even stumbled a bit as he shoved off the wall. "What? Where?"

Now the tables had turned. It was Eagle who had lost his cool, leaving Wolf with the upper hand. He decided to milk it, making Eagle tap his foot impatiently and suffer through a minute or two of Wolf's silent bench pressing before he finally decided to grace him with an answer.

"Here. By the targets outside."

"Well?" Clearly that answer had not satisfied. "What was he doing here?"

Wolf rolled his eyes, "That's what I wanted to know."

"And?"

Wolf paused again before answering. "He came as representative of MI6. They want me to do a job for them."

Eagle's initial reaction was a burst of laughter that died when Wolf's expression did not change, and it became clear that there was nothing funny about the situation.

"Seriously?" Eagle's voice was sharp, "You're considering this? What can you do that they can't do themselves?"

Wolf shrugged, not an easy feat with two hundred and eighty pounds weighing down on his shoulders, and replied with two simple words, "Alex Rider."

Eagle just looked at him, waiting for more, but Wolf didn't feel the need to elaborate. The silence stretched for so long that it became a contest of wills, to see who could stand it the longest. Wolf won.

"What do you have to do with MI6's boy wonder? What kind of shit have they gotten him into this time?"

Wolf remained silent a moment longer before answering, reinforcing his victory, "That's the problem. He jumped ship, and they can't seem to get him back on board."

"So they want you to do it?" The incredulity in Eagle's voice stung a bit, even if it _was_ exactly what Wolf had thought, too, at first.

So he said nothing, and let the silence speak for him. Eagle snarled wordlessly at him and stormed out, throwing his hands up in the air, muttering about fools and where exactly they belonged. Which made Wolf smile. His partner had always been able to manage that, at least.

It was another hour before Wolf finally left the room, having chased off a good half dozen others by facial expression alone. His temper was legendary, here. And he worked hard to keep up that reputation.

He hadn't made it five steps away from the building before he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He wasn't surprised when Snake, fair haired Scott and member of the former K-Unit, fell into step beside him. It made sense; he had always been the most pragmatic of the group, and easily the best problem solver.

"What answer will you give to MI6?" Wolf frowned. He also wasn't the type to bullshit around, either. Which meant he also wouldn't take any, even from his former team leader. So,

"Not sure yet."

Snake nodded, as if he had expected an answer of that type. "Have you been given the particulars?"

Wolf stared at him incredulously. It was MI6, for Christ's sake. You were lucky to even get the name and location of your target _after_ you'd signed the contract in blood and been sworn to secrecy, or whatever it was they were doing these days.

Snake didn't smile, exactly. But his lips twitched and his eyes sparked with amusement. "Point."

Wolf fidgeted for a few minutes, as Snake waited patiently. They both knew what he was going to ask, not that it helped. Wolf was proud, and clung to that pride with a mule-like stubbornness. Finally, he managed to mumble, "WhatdoyouthinkIshoulddo?"

Snake smiled; a true movement of the lips this time. He didn't pretend to mishear the question, and didn't call for it to be repeated, something for which Wolf was immensely grateful. Leaders weren't supposed to need the opinions of others for decisions like these.

"Truly? I think you should do it, no matter how much it irks Jonathan," he said seriously. "But in the end it's your choice. Not mine, not Jon's. Yours."

Wolf didn't watch him as he left. Didn't want Snake to see the expression on Wolf's face as he fished a now crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket, and punched the number into his cell phone. The other phone only rang once before it was picked up.

"Hello?"

"I have your answer."

* * *

Chapter Notes: Yes, so not exactly the cliffhanger I was planning on leaving you with. Oh, well. At least it's dramatic. Sort of. Jonathan is Eagle's real name, but let me know if it doesn't work. Anyway, this was an experiment with a new style of writing. It's a little strange, and a little formal. If it's too much, let me know. I _can_ write like a normal person if I so choose. And, depending on how this chapter is received, longer chapters are quite likely. 2,500 words or more, easily.

I'm a glutton for reviews. I'll even do review responses. Seriously. ;)

(This has been re-posted, and Eagle's name has been changed. Total stupidity on my part. Sorry guys, thanks for pointing it out)


	3. What Do You Say?

A/N: Hello again! I'm back with another chapter, just for you. This story isn't giving me TOO much trouble plot-wise anymore; its those nasty fillers that drag out the writing process. Then again, what would a story be without fillers?

Shorter. Thats what it would be.

Do I need to remind you to enjoy?

* * *

Wolf glanced at the address on the slip of paper in his hand, then up at the building in front of him. Right. Royal and General it was, then. He straightened his shoulders, squinting against the glare of the sun off of the reflective, opaque surface of the windows. There were a lot of windows.

Someone shoved by him in irritation, muttering loudly about 'damn tourists'. Wolf had to squelch the urge to go over and give the man a good smack. It was probably a sign that he'd procrastinated long enough, and it was time to just get the thing over with.

The inside of the "bank" looked surprisingly like…well, like a bank. Complete with tellers and supposed customers. He wasn't sure why he'd ever suspect otherwise; MI6 never did anything by halves.

He had only waited a few moments before Fox caught sight of him, and walked quickly over. "You showed."

"You sound relieved." Wolf sounded amused. He'd given his word, hadn't he? He'd made his choice.

"Yeah, yeah. Come on."

Fox led him past the security guards—after flashing an ID card—and into a quieter, less crowded hallway where he pushed the button for an elevator. It arrived shortly, doors opening with a ding to reveal several middle aged men in business suits with briefcases, who adjusted their positions slightly to allow the two former SAS inside. Wolf glanced surreptitiously over at Fox. Yep; suit and tie. Wolf looked down at his dark jeans and sweatshirt uncomfortably.

He waited for some comment, or at least a raised eyebrow, but none came. The silence in the elevator car was almost stifling. There was no casual conversation, no friendly nods or greetings as they stopped to pick up and drop off passengers. The atmosphere was like ice. He was almost surprised they weren't all wearing sunglasses and ear buds.

By the time Fox moved to get off the elevator, Wolf was ready to scream. This, _this_ was why he had made a point of avoiding spies in the past. An awkward, close-mouthed lot. Unfortunately now that would only be a handicap; it took a certain finesse to deal with these men and women. Finesse that Wolf lacked.



* * *

He followed Fox down the corridor silently; eyes flickering from side to side as his mind automatically filed away the layout for future reference. The place looked so ordinary it was almost hard to believe it housed a top secret organization. But then a woman with a scarred face and short brown hair passed by, arguing in Chinese about the price of frequency-hopping, radio controlled torpedoes. He was so absorbed in scanning the area that he didn't notice Fox had stopped walking until they collided.

Wolf rubbed his forehead and mumbled an apology. Fox didn't reply. He didn't even look like he'd noticed the crash. He was staring at a closed door, identical to all the others lining the hallway. His face took on a colder, more resolute expression as he lifted a hand to knock. Wolf twitched, mentally calculating his chances at escaping before the door opened. Subconciously, he knew once the door was opened there was no going back.

The response was immediate, and all of the recent figures slipped out of his mind. Mrs. Jones stood in the doorway, examining them both coolly. She stepped back and gestured inside. "Enter."

So they did.

Tulip Jones wasn't sure exactly what to expect when she'd enlisted the help of former SAS operative Wolf. Wasn't even sure it could work at all. But yet here he was, standing in the doorway behind Ben Daniels, face impassive. He was dressed down in jeans and a navy blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the Nike logo, but carried himself as if he didn't notice how out of place he looked—or, more likely, like he didn't care.

She'd got that impression the last time she'd worked with him—and, oddly enough, Alex had been involved then, too. Point Blanc. She didn't pause to wonder about the coincidence, as it would probably only give her a headache.

For several long moments they remained standing motionless. Finally, Alan Blunt gestured Wolf toward the only other open chair in the room. Daniels took the hint, nodding to Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones, then giving Wolf a long stare before exiting, closing the door quietly behind him.

There was another awkward pause, and Mrs. Jones couldn't help comparing this man to their teenage protégé. Alex would have found the atmosphere somewhat uncomfortable, and attempted to break the ice with a quip, or bad joke of some sort. Wolf sat in stony faced silence, eyes locked on Alan.

It was Blunt who caved first, letting out a long breath and leaning back in his chair. He shuffled a few papers around, giving himself an excuse to avert his gaze, and said, "It appears we are in need of some assistance from you."

Wolf grunted. "Gathered that."

Alan blinked in surprise. Mrs. Jones snatched up a peppermint from her purse, ducking her head to hide a smile. Eloquence, apparently, wasn't something necessary to becoming an SAS operative. But Blunt recovered with his usual quickness, leaving behind no trace that he'd been unsettled.

"Well, then, you're entitled to know the particulars as well before you consent. Alex Rider—perhaps better known to you as Cub—is seventeen years of age, and currently resides in Manchester. He takes classes at the university, and is employed part time at a sporting equipment store. He is no longer working for us—and hasn't been for nearly three years now."

"Why not?" Wolf interrupted.

Mr. Blunt stopped and Mrs. Jones took over, without missing a beat. Alan always left her the distasteful parts. "There was an…accident with the last mission we sent him on. Faulty information." Her face twisted wryly. "It was taken care of, but he'd—how did he put it?—lost his "taste for the business". Walked away, and we haven't seen him since. The only one who might have kept in contact with him, the housekeeper Jack, returned to the states some time ago to care for her father."

Wolf smirked, clearly not buying the "clean version" story she'd laid out for him. To his credit, however, he didn't challenge it. "Where's my part in all of this?"

"I'm getting to that." She took a deep breath, "Really, it's rather simple. We've run out of options. A very important case has come up, and we need him back as soon as possible. He refuses to speak with us, or anyone else we might send his way. He respected you; you saved his life in France." Wolf opened his mouth to protest, but Mrs. Jones held up a hand to forestall any questions.

"Also, he wouldn't run if he saw you. He doesn't know you have anything to do with us. He might not even recognize you at first. If nothing else, you could at least get close enough to lay out the details of the case. Maybe that is all that's needed."

Alan spoke again, slowly, "This problem is quickly escalating into a disaster. People are dying—children, like him. Once he hears about it, his conscience won't allow him to refuse a chance to save these lives, or avenge the already dead."

"You sound very sure of yourselves."

Alan chose not to reply to that, and Mrs. Jones followed his example. While Alex Rider refused to discuss anything personal with either of them, it would take an idiot not to have grasped at least some part of his moral code.

Wolf was eyeing them both, gaze flickering back between herself and Alan. "Alright," he said slowly, "Let's say I agreed to this. What do I get out of the bargain?"

Alan smiled tightly. "The comfort of knowing you helped to salvage hundreds of human lives. As well as twenty five hundred pounds in compensation."

Wolf whistled, leaning back. "It's that important to you, huh?"

Mrs. Jones jumped in before Alan could say something cryptic and offend him. They probably wouldn't get another shot at this. "We have a great deal of financial backing on this one. It is quite important."

"You still haven't told me what exactly you want him to do for you."

Mrs. Jones tried to answer that question as well, but Alan cut her off. "It's not necessary for you to know. We'll give you something that will allow Rider to contact us, and we will tell him directly."

Wolf glared, and Alan stared back blankly. Mrs. Jones suppressed a sigh. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. But then, after all those days with Alex she'd become rather good at playing referee.

"It's safest for you personally if you don't get directly involved with this mission," she told Wolf, attempting to soothe his ruffled feathers.

It worked…sort of. He turned a fraction of his attention to her and scowled in irritation. Irritation was better than anger. Plus, the staring contest seemed to be over, and that was her intent. She hadn't known Alan had even possessed a competitive side. After another moment's consideration, she decided that was rather stupid of her; how else could he have gotten this job?

"So." Blunt was watching Wolf carefully again. "What do you say?"

Wolf considered, leaning back in his chair. Mrs. Jones could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of this assignment. But twenty five hundred pounds was a lot of money, so eventually…

"Yes."

* * *

Wolf emerged from the room some forty five minutes later, clutching an airline ticket and a cheap, prepaid mobile telephone. It was a horrendous orange color, with blue trimming and a screen the size of his thumbnail, but it carried the communications device Cub needed. An obese man wearing a pinstriped suit had brought it up on a tray and said, with a laughing gleam in his eye, to tell Cub it was "a model nine". Whatever the hell _that_ meant.

Fox was waiting for him outside, sitting a few feet down the hall in a standard, uncomfortable looking plastic chair. He stood up as soon as he saw Wolf, and managed a smile. If it was a little strained and didn't come near to reaching his eyes, Wolf pretended not to notice.

"Made it out alive, I see."

Wolf shrugged nonchalantly, "Of course."

Fox shook his head. "And to think I was worried about leaving you in there alone with them."

Wolf grinned. "Yeah, I wondered about that. Afraid they'd eat me alive?"

"No. They'd have the decency to kill you first, I think. But that's beside the point." His voice lost the joking tone. "What did you tell them?"

Wolf was quiet for a moment. Then, "I said yes."

Fox nodded, relief plain on his features, though his voice carried no inflection. "Good."

But Wolf still wasn't so sure that was the right sentiment. He allowed Fox to drive him back to the motel where he'd left his overnight bag, and then out to the airport. The flight was scheduled for later that night, leaving Wolf wondering exactly how Blunt could be so sure of himself.

Fox even waited with him inside the terminal, armed with a cup of coffee and yesterday's newspaper, which lay open on his lap. But, strangely, he chose to examine Wolf instead. At this point, Wolf just had to ask.

"Were you instructed to make sure I got on this plane?"

Fox grinned sheepishly. "Caught, huh? Yeah, they told me to keep an eye on you until you left—more to ensure that you actually left at all."

Wolf grunted something that sounded suspiciously like "paranoid" followed by several much more unflattering terms.

"Could be," Fox allowed. He took a sip of his coffee and closed the paper. "Your flight was just called. Better hurry up."

Wolf stood and swung his bag up over his shoulder in a smooth motion. He could feel Fox's eyes on him as he made his way to the gate. He didn't bother saying goodbye.

* * *

End Notes (where your questions will be answered, if they aren't too much of a giveaway plotwise)

**Why are your chapters so effin short? I wait for, like, _weeks_ and then all you post is a tiny snippit!! What the heck is your problem?**

Okay, so most of you don't sound like that. Yes, I know that it sucks to wait for weeks and then get about 2K words a chapter. I'm pretty busy, so the timing is kind of inevitable. Also, I tend to end chapters on what I think makes a very good break--and those come at random. It will go faster once I get myself a beta to read over my work, because I tend to miss my own mistakes.

**I thought this was a story about Wolf and ALEX. So where's Alex?**

Next chapter.

**Is this story going to be from Wolf's POV?**

Some of it. But, as some of you may already be able to see, I enjoy changing points of view multiple times within chapters. There will always be a line break to let you know when that happens.

**Will you respond directly to MY review?**

If you specifically request that I do so. I love when people ask questions--it makes me feel like they are really captivated, and that means I'm doing my job.

Read and review, as always. They totally make my day. If I can keep up the streak of fifteen or more reviews per chapter I will be a happy person.


	4. Familiar Faces

A/N: Whew, that was some break, wasn't it? Won't be happening again. My apologies.

This chapter is dedicated to my fantastic new beta (-insert drumroll here-)...Nyxelestia! Absolutely amazing beta.

So, then, without further ado...

_________________________________________

He was rebuilding his life. The life he should have had, the one MI6 stole away without so much as a by-your-leave. And it seemed to be working out. Sometimes.

"…read pages 312-404, and write a complete summary, to be handed in on Monday. Have a dictionary handy; you'll need it."

A low groan escaped the throats of his classmates, and Alex shook his head. He still had trouble understanding their extreme distaste for schoolwork. It was easy enough for him to enjoy every part of these classes, especially when compared to diving out of a flaming jet over the Atlantic Ocean without a proper parachute.

But then, he couldn't exactly say _that_ to his new friends.

So, he put up a token resistance, went through the appropriate motions of procrastination, and secretly loved it all.

They never suspected. In fact, most of the time his friends never questioned anything he did – they chalked up his strange quirks as Alex simply being Alex. It was nice to not have to explain himself, though once in a while he found himself wishing for companions who were more perceptive.

But then he reminded himself that he had chosen these friends mostly _because_ of their lack of observational skills. He knew the consequences if someone should find out his secret. And it wasn't so much a desire to protect MI6 that caused him to hide his tracks, but a desire to keep things as they were now.

Because now he'd had a taste of freedom, and he would do anything it took to keep it.

------------

He met Kevin in the fifth week of school, sneaking into the old trophy room on the third floor of the Athletics Building. Alex was just looking for the bathroom.

He stopped to stare at this crazy boy—balanced precariously on the backs of his heels, intently attempting to pick the old-fashioned lock on the door—and found himself interested to see how things would play out.

Two things soon became clear to him: first, that boy had absolutely no sense of caution, and second, he couldn't pick locks to save his life.

Alex hadn't been standing there long before the boy noticed him, and grinned widely, flashing a set of crooked white teeth.

"Hey."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Hey."

"I'm Kevin."

"Good to know. Now I'll have a name to report to the Athletics Head later on this afternoon."

Kevin smirked, seemingly unconcerned. "Sure you will. Now are you going to help me with this lock or not?"

"Do I look like I engage in criminal activity?"

Kevin shrugged, shaggy black hair falling over his eyes.

Alex walked over and knelt down beside the lock, holding out a hand for the pick. Kevin relinquished the tool, and watched as Alex set to work. Less than half a minute later, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

Kevin grinned, delight lighting up his dark face as he stood and strode into the room. Alex followed, still curious, watching as his companion scanned the shelves, occasionally picking up a trophy to inspect the base.

Finally he must have found what he was looking for, because he let out a shout of triumph and lifted a big gold cup off the top shelf. "Got it!"

Suddenly Alex heard voices approaching from the hall outside. "Quick," he hissed, "Get out of here."

Kevin looked startled, but clutched his prize to his chest and peeked outside. "Mr. Tracey," he whispered.

Alex considered their options. They could leave and get caught, red handed. Or they could stay in the room until he passed. It was really no choice at all.

He reached out and grabbed Kevin's arm, pulling him back into the room. Then he closed the door, praying it wouldn't lock automatically from the outside. He'd left the lock pick on the other side of the door.

Kevin pressed his ear up against the door, listening intently. Alex settled back onto his heels to wait. Five minutes later, Kevin stepped away from the door. "He's gone."

Alex reached out and tried the handle of the door. He stared at it in disbelief. "Locked."

Kevin shrugged. "So use your crazy thief skills and _un_lock it."

"With what?"

Kevin frowned, reaching into his pockets, "Don't you have…"

Alex watched as realization began to sink in."Yeah. Exactly."

"Shit." Kevin sighed, sliding down to slump against the door. "I don't suppose you have a bobby pin or something, do you?"

Alex stared at him incredulously, and Kevin raised his hands, palms out, "Joking, joking."

Alex sighed, and began to walk around the room, peering behind the awards and under the shelves.

"What are you doing?"

Alex shot him a look. "Finding something we could use to get out. Unless, of course, you'd rather wait here until next week for the janitor to find you."

"Um, no thanks." Kevin scrambled to his feet and joined in.

In the end, it was Alex who found them another lock pick, albeit a much more impromptu one. And it was Alex who lied to the janitor about their predicament on the way out.

And a new tradition was begun. Kevin would begin with the harebrained schemes, and Alex was always the one to bail them out. They shouldn't have worked together, not with such fundamental differences. But there was something about the give and take, the excitement Kevin could give that Alex _needed_.

So when Kevin asked him out, five weeks later, he said yes.

-------------------

They had a warm summer that year. Cloudy most of the time, sure, but almost unbearably hot. Kevin refused to go running outdoors anymore, so Alex went out alone. He woke up early in the morning, before dawn, to catch the coolest part of the day. Kevin was still sleeping inside—Alex had been quiet in getting out of bed this morning so as not to wake his bedmate.

On this particular day his route was short—only six kilometers or so—but hilly. The streets surrounding the apartment he shared with Kevin were empty. Well, they should have been.

"Hey, Alex! Wait up!"

He paused, glancing back over his shoulder. A tall, dark-haired girl panted up to him, grinning widely.

He looked at her. "Marianne. What are you doing?"

"Gaining weight," she replied, bending over to touch her toes.

He looked at her. "By exercising. That makes sense."

She shrugged, "I don't do very much. And I go slowly. Being outside makes me hungry. Eating more is a tried and true method for weight gain."

"Whatever you say."

Alex started off at a slow jog, enjoying the feel of the breeze on his skin. Marianne fell into step beside him.

"Aren't you going to ask me why I want to gain weight?"

"If you want me to," he replied. She ignored this.

"If you must know, I'm trying to land a spot in the A-boat this fall. If I don't gain some weight, I'll be back with the lightweights. While that's not necessarily a bad thing, I feel like there's more competition in the open races."

"Hmm. What sport is this again?"

She rolled her eyes at him, brushing a stray hair out of her face. "Crew, you wanker..."

Alex opened his mouth to reply, but a sudden motion in his peripheral vision distracted him. A jogger brushed by him on the path—he looked vaguely familiar. An old professor? Too young. Former co-worker? Possible.

_Former…unit leader?_

Oh, God.

"Alex. Alex, are you listening to me?"

_What is he doing here?_ Alex felt a surge of irrational anger. What right did they have to come and interfere in his life again?

"Sorry, Marianne. I think I'm cramping up. You go on ahead, I'll catch up."

She glanced at him dubiously. "Well, okay. Don't stop moving."

He nodded and slowed down, clutching his side and pretending to limp along until her dark ponytail bobbed out of sight. Then he straightened up and turned around. A slight smile twisted his lips... This was his home turf. Time for some payback.

He had been jogging slowly with Marianne. Hiding his true skills had become second nature over the years—but now there was no one here to see. So he ran.

---------------

The old man sitting on the bench watched as the boy sprinted through the park, and thought him remarkably quick and consistent. Consistency was good—it meant training, and organization. Without organization, everything fell apart.

This was why he had gone over the plan seven times with his assistants—seven was a lucky number—and stocked them to the teeth with bugs, radios, and walkie-talkies. Lack of communication ranked right up there with lack of organization on his list of don'ts...

The boy faded out of sight quickly in the same direction the muscular man had taken. Maybe they would run into each other. It would have been interesting to watch them fight in an old fashioned ring—speed versus strength. He had always bet on speed, personally.

Nothing was fought the way it used to be, anymore. There were no death matches. No knives, chains, or broken bottles allowed into the ring. No duels, and certainly no more shootouts. Modern entertainment grew tamer every year.

His back pocket vibrated suddenly, startling him. He pulled out a slim, silver mobile phone and flipped it open.

"Sean Gilmore."

"Sean," a woman's voice sounded over the connection, "Where are you? The boss is getting antsy."

"On the corner of Westfield and Marsh. I have one more left on my round."

"Well, hurry up!"

He hung up on her, but rose from the bench and set off quickly across the grass. He moved quite easily for a man well past his prime—but then again, he had always been a healthy man. Never used the things he sold to other fools.

He hurried up the steps of the last house and knocked sharply.

"Alex?" someone yelled from inside, "Did you forget your key? There's always a spare—" here the door was wrenched open and the boy stopped. "Oh. It's you. You're late."

Sean ignored the blatant lack of respect. After all, this was one of his better customers. "Do you have the money?"

"Sure. Hang on," he said, rummaging around in his pockets and coming up with several crumpled bills.

Sean handed him the small bag, and snatched the money. The door slammed in his face and Sean turned down the steps, shaking his head. Children.

-----------------------

Alex slowed down as he drew level with the man he'd just spent the past half hour chasing. The muscles in his legs protested the sudden change in pace.

Then the man stopped jogging, and said, "Is there a reason you've followed me here all the way from Westfield?"

And then Alex knew for certain. "Did MI6 send you here?"

The man known only as 'Wolf' turned around and looked him over. Time had been kind to him; he looked better than before. More hard muscle, and sharp lines.

_Or maybe now you're just really looking._ Alex frowned, feeling oddly self-conscious. Wolf smirked as if he knew.

"Yeah."

Even though he'd expected something of the sort—he wouldn't have believed Wolf given any other answer—the bluntness was irritating.

"Well, you can go back and tell them to shove it, whatever it is, up their asses."

Wolf raised an eyebrow. "Language," he mocked.

Alex turned around and began to walk back the way he had come. Sure enough, Wolf followed. "Aren't you even a bit curious?"

"No."

"Liar."

Alex paused. "You're right. Let me make that a fuck no." He shook his head and continued walking. Wolf continued to follow silently.

Alex wondered when he would give up. The past few messengers had lasted two days, three weeks, and four hours respectively. He was still pondering this as he let himself into the house, and turned around, blocking the door.

"You can't come in," he said, exasperated.

Wolf just looked at him.

"Seriously," Alex persisted, reaching around to close the door. Wolf grabbed his arm suddenly, and Alex tensed, eyes narrowing. He wondered if he could beat Wolf in a hand to hand fight. Probably not.

But Wolf just shoved an envelope and a mobile phone into his hand. "Just in case."

Alex shook his head and closed the door, tossing the envelope and phone onto the couch. "Kevin?"

No answer. Probably still asleep. Alex walked toward the bedroom.

"Kevin, I need to borrow your car. Do you need—Christ!"

Alex stopped in the doorway of the bedroom, horrified. Kevin lay sprawled, half across the bed, half on the floor, surrounded by needles. There was an ominous, vacant look on his face. He wasn't moving.

Slowly, Alex forced his feet to cross the room. He reached out a hand to feel for a pulse on the side of Kevin's neck...

One minute passed. Two. Nothing.

And the foundations of his fragile, shabbily repaired life came tumbling down. Again.

____________________________

Ouch. Poor Alex. And poor OC...nah. Not really.

Thank you very much to those who have been reviewing! Please continue to tell me what you think!


	5. Falling Backwards

Chapter 5

A/N: I lied. I'm sorry, really, but I know you're probably not interested in excuses. Please forgive me, and enjoy this chapter :)

------------

Alex stood outside the house, watching the EMT wheel away the stretcher, moving a still form shrouded in a white sheet. His stomach turned as he thought about it, how easily Kevin had gone. One moment alive, the next moment not.

But Alex knew all about Death. Apparently, they had similar tastes—in friends, in lovers, in vacation spots.

Slowly, the area began to clear. The ambulance had only just left, despite the fact that Kevin had been proclaimed legally dead a half hour ago. Morbidly curious bystanders were beginning to trickle away, though several of the more persistent had already come over to question him. He ignored them, and eventually they moved on.

He felt numb, almost desensitized. He knew intellectually that he would go through the normal stages of grief, and that at the moment he was probably feeling a kind of denial, and the anger would come later.

But for now it was like watching everything from behind a glass wall.

It worried him that he had been living with Kevin for over a month and never noticed this dangerous habit. Easy living had dulled his senses, but not so much that the circumstances weren't slightly suspicious.

He couldn't put his finger on exactly what was bothering him. Something about the out-of-the-blue way MI6 had re-inserted themselves into his life, and the sudden death of his friend (_he was more than that_), both happening on the same day…

Well, he had never actually believed in coincidence.

So he went back inside, studiously avoiding the room he had shared with Kevin, and settled himself on the couch. Then he picked up the envelope that was still lying there and began to read.

* * *

An hour and a half later, he put it down again, mind racing. Drugs. MI6 needed him for a drug related problem. A drug that caused sudden death.

(He still didn't believe in coincidence)

Now he had a choice to make. Try to pick up the fragments of this life and move forward? Or avenge his friend by stepping back into the role of who he had once been? The decision was far too easy.

He picked up the mobile phone, and turned it on. It chirped cheerfully, display flickering to life. In the upper left hand corner, the message icon blinked. He pulled up the menu, and navigated into the voice mail system.

Mrs. Jones' voice came through loudly,

_Alex, if you're listening to this, I hope that means you've decided to take the case. I know you don't want to work with us any longer, and believe me, we understand. But this is important—hundreds of people have died already, some of them not even legal adults yet._

_Please. We need your help. Once you've made your decision, you can contact Wolf; his number is keyed to the number 3 on this phone._

The familiar voice ended abruptly, and the generic woman's voice took over, instructing him on how to either delete or replay the message. Alex ignored it, moving the phone away from his ear to press and hold down the button with the number 3.

Wolf answered on the second ring.

"Rider."

Alex cut right to the chase. "I'll do it."

He could almost hear the satisfied smile in Wolf's voice as he said, "Good. I'll swing by to pick you up in ten. Pack an overnight bag; we can catch the redeye. Oh, and before I forget—one of the MI6 guys wants you to know the phone is a model nine."

Alex smiled, hung up and went to get his duffel.

True to his word, Wolf was there in ten minutes. Alex, who had been waiting on the steps, got to his feet slowly. Wolf rolled down the passenger side window and yelled at him to get in the damn car, they were late.

Alex walked over, and leisurely opened up the door. He slid into the seat and turned to face Wolf, smiling slightly.

"Let's get a few things straight, before this goes any farther. You don't order me around. And if at any point during this debriefing, I decide I don't like the case, I'm walking."

Wolf put the car into gear and pulled out. He glanced at Alex consideringly. "No. You take the case, and then you get details. And then after you take the case, I'm your superior. So when I say jump, you say…?"

"Fuck off?"

Wolf laughed. "Jesus, Cub. Where'd you find the backbone?"

"I was a kid when you met me," Alex told him. "I'm not that kid anymore."

The humor leaked slowly out of Wolf's expression. "No. I guess you wouldn't be. Not after dealing with _them_ all those years."

Alex said nothing. Wolf seemed to understand, because he didn't say anything else. The brilliant lights of the airport stood out against the evening sky, growing larger and brighter as the car raced forward.

--------

False passports, straight faced lies, and innocent smiles. God, he'd thought he was through with all this.

But it got them on the plane without trouble. He sat silently next to Wolf, in the aisle seat. They had fought for a bit over that.

"Why can't _you_ take the window seat?" Wolf had asked, folding his arms across his chest defiantly.

Alex stared at him. "Because I want the aisle seat."

"Don't you kids _always_ want the window seat?"

Alex frowned, irritated. "I'm not a child—don't continue to treat me like one. And I want the aisle seat because I'm not sure I trust you."

It would take more than this fragile truce to prompt Alex to sit pinned between Wolf and the wall of the airplane. If something _did_ happen (was that the old paranoia returning?) he wanted to be able to move freely.

Wolf had acquiesced, grudgingly, but there was a new gleam of respect in his eyes as he looked at Alex.

The plane touched down at one in the morning—the flight seemed to have gone abnormally quickly. Too quickly, in Alex's opinion. For all that he kept reminding Wolf he was no longer a child (and he wasn't) he couldn't stop the tendrils of anxiety from snaking their way up through his body, freezing his mind in an endless loop of denial…

But he _was_ going back. Without Jack, without Sabina, without even Tom. Alone.

And that thought was nothing if not frightening. The boy who had faced down terrorists, withstood torture, escaped from maximum level security prisons. Afraid of one man, and what he could do with just his seal on an order. He thought briefly that his psychology professor back at the U would have a field day with _this_ particular fear.

"Hey, Alex. You alright?"

Wolf was staring at him. Alex blinked slowly, forcing his mind back to the present. "Yeah. Fine."

Wolf had been angled forward, but he leaned back against the seat now and stared at the seatbelt light, as if attempting to turn it off by the force of his gaze alone.

"You looked like you were going to be sick."

His eyes flickered over to Alex, and quickly away again. But Alex hadn't missed the flash of concern in them—and he was surprised.

"I didn't know you cared," he teased. But he spoke half-heartedly, and without real inflection. Wolf frowned, eyebrows coming together.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the captain beat him to it. The seatbelt lights flickered off, and chatter broke out on all sides around them as passengers stood and stretched. Alex slid out of his seat and reached up to the overhead compartment to grab his bag.

_Welcome home, Alex._

* * *

Alex stared at the immense building, his eyes lingering on the sign that identified it as Royal and General Bank. Déjà vu swept over him, and a bitter smile twitched at his lips.

Wolf took a step closer to him, until their shoulders almost brushed. It was an odd sort of support, but comforting nonetheless to have someone standing at his side. "Ready?"

He had almost forgotten that Wolf understood—that he'd dealt with these people before. It was a strange notion, really, that he could possibly be dealing with someone who _understood_ what he had gone through, although he'd still rather be with his school friends that didn't.

Pushing aside the last remnants of self pity and doubt, Alex closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them again, they were cold and hard. He noticed Wolf smile in approval.

This was the Alex they needed, and so he would give it to them. The spy that had been lost these past few years, as he'd settled into what had seemed like a normal life.

Lost? Or perhaps locked away, and forcibly forgotten. Alex stepped forward and walked into the bank.

Everything was as he remembered it. Cheerful tellers with carefully bland smiles and boring shirts, customers with forced grins and shifty eyes. Funny how he still noticed these little things. Maybe it would be just like riding a bike.

"Come on."

And that was Wolf at his elbow, guiding him toward the elevators in the back.

They reached the elevator just as another man was getting off. He was dressed in a business suit, and carried a slim black briefcase. His eyes flashed up to meet Alex's, and he froze. Slowly, carefully, he took a step out of the elevator.

Alex glanced at the man, a mix of amusement and irritation flashing through him. So he hadn't been completely forgotten after all.

The man took another, quicker step. Then another, until he was almost fleeing. Alex looked away and stepped into the elevator. Wolf didn't move. He stood still, a carefully blank expression on his face. But his eyes were calculating and curious.

Alex grimaced, and pressed the button to close the elevator doors.

* * *

To say Mrs. Jones was a bit apprehensive would be like saying standing under Niagara Falls gets one slightly wet. But she didn't show it in her face, and her hands lay relaxed in her lap. Perhaps the only outward sign she gave was in the nervous way she rolled her peppermint around the inside of her cheek.

Alan was giving her a strange look, and so she stopped even that.

She opened her mouth, then thought better and closed it, biting her bottom lip. Then she opened it again, "Do you think—"

The sound of the door swinging open cut her off, and her mouth snapped shut. She rose to her feet and stared as Alex walked in, followed closely by Wolf.

Mrs. Jones stuck out her hand quickly. "Alex. It's good to see you again."

He turned his face until his eyes met hers, dead on. She felt locked into that gaze—somewhere, absently, she wondered how any of his friends learned to deal with the intensity in his eyes. But if he looked at them this way, the better question would be whether or not he _had_ any. Friends, that is.

And yet, of course he did. That was the reason he was here, after all. But he was speaking now,

"I can't say the same." Finally, he turned those frightening brown eyes to Alan Blunt. "So let's just go straight to the point. What do you want?"

Mrs. Jones opened her mouth to speak—and, yes, she'd practiced the way she would say it—but Alan cut her off.

"We want many things, Alex. To list them all would take time we, or rather, _you_ don't have."

"People are dying."

No, Mrs. Jones decided, this would not fit into her monologue. Improvisation it was, then. "Yes, Alex. Children. Underage. They have no—"

"I was underage when you first found me." There was a quiet kind of fire in his voice. "It didn't seem like such a big deal four years ago."

And there it was. Their weakness, and his strength. She glanced at Alan, who was frowning. Oops.

"Regardless, Alex," Blunt continued when she failed to respond (she'd never been in favor of using him so early on, anyway), "It is not only MI6 that needs your help once again. You aren't doing it for us. You're doing it for everyone else."

He paused a moment to let the words sink in. From the suddenly sour expression on Alex's face, she guessed they were making some sort of sense to him. He was a good boy, at heart. Just lost something along the way to becoming an adult. Their fault, probably.

"Fine."

And then they had him. Mrs. Jones relaxed fully for the first time in six days, since she'd placed the call to Fox—Benjamin. If there was one thing Alex was not, it was a breaker of promises. At least, of the ones that counted. With a sudden flash of intuition she knew that he must have made his decision before even entering the room; his resistance had been token, at best.

"Excellent," she said briskly, not bothering to hide the relief in her voice. "Wolf filled you in, on the ride over?"

"Yes."

Now that he'd agreed, he seemed to be impatient to leave. His eyes kept flickering to the door. She wondered if he knew she would notice, and if he was doing it purposefully to annoy her. Or maybe it wasn't calculated at all—maybe he just needed to use the bathroom. And this was why she tried not to examine Alex Rider too closely.

"Wolf will be your contact and supervisor while you are undercover. As you know, we need for you to gain the trust of the men and women in charge of distributing this drug, Etheremin, and have them lead you to its source. That is all. Once you find the location, pull out immediately. Get in touch with Wolf, and we'll send a team in.

"And don't do anything too reckless, Alex," she finished, with a touch of exasperation. "Any big plans you run by Wolf first, and proceed only after he approves them. We don't need you to be a hero."

But she was lying, and they all knew it. Even Wolf had a look of something that was almost disbelief in his eyes.

They had sent men. They had sent women. They had sent drug addicts, drug dealers, crooked pharmaceutical manufacturers. The addict had been killed with the drug, the dealers had come back with their throats slit, and the manufacturer…well, she didn't like to think about what had happened to him.

"We aren't sending you in completely blind," Alan said suddenly, and Alex looked at him. "After the death of his girlfriend, the son of one of our employees came forward with the address of one of the more prominent dealers; the man who had sold to his girlfriend."

"You'll be provided with a cover ID," Mrs. Jones added, "and we'll send you in initially as a buyer."

Alex nodded sharply. "When?"

Mrs. Jones hesitated. Alan Blunt did not. "The night after tomorrow."

-------

End Notes: Lol, Alan Blunt is evil isn't he? And so it begins...

Questions (note: I read and treasure EVERY review. Seriously, you guys are too awesome. These are just a few of the more commonly asked questions)

**Will the rest of the K-Unit feature?**

Probably at some point. There was a bit in the beginning.

**Typos. (aka My Apologies)**

Twenty five HUNDRED pounds was, in fact, an error. It was meant to be two hundred and fifty THOUSAND. Oops. Please don't let it worry you, I'll probably go back and change it later.

**Did Kevin OD?**

Well, that's certainly what it looks like, doesn't it? But don't get too convinced...

**Who is Sean? Who is that woman who called him?**

Excellent questions. Hold them for next chapter, okay?


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